


Eating Crow

by small_secret



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Assumpution of, Creepy Hannibal, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Mentions of past Will/Hannibal, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_secret/pseuds/small_secret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The devil does not like to be lied to, even if the devil is besotted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eating Crow

**Author's Note:**

> Simply just a Hannibal POV exercise based on chapter 35 from Silence of the Lambs. This was supposed to be just for the book series but... TV series references got in there. Mushed up canon once more? AUish? One of these days I'm going to have the guts to write smut of these two. I swear it.

Hannibal knows Clarice's true smell by now, even in the unfamiliar converted jail cell within the heart of Tennessee. There is no perfume this time, only sweat, tears that refused to fall, desperation, and her natural smell of sweet mellow sunshine that somehow mingles together so perfectly that reminds Lecter of the _Symphony of Psalms_ – raw and haunting.

 

A keening edge of _annoyance_ burns within his gut when he recognizes her. He's not felt such disquiet towards another human in... well, certainly since incarceration.

 

"Good morning, _Clarice_." Anticipation is good for the system, it brings out the adrenalin that washes ice cold under veins and makes one so very aware of surroundings. As rare as the feeling is for him, Hannibal remembers the sensation well and can recall in from within closets of the Memory Palace.

 

Clarice _ought_ to know how it feels, she _ought_ to be feeling it now.

_Snow_ , a book by Orhan Pamuk, is set aside. Hannibal notes of need for Pamuk to find a better translator before turns in his chair to sit backwards to face Clarice. His sinewy forearms rest on the back of the chair, his chin rests upon them, and red eyes lock upon upon her.

 

Annoyance _snaps_.

 

Uncut and unpolished is Clarice; even more worn and tattered than the night she came in from the rain with Klaus' head on her mind. Shadows bloom purple under her eyes. Her eyes are shards of emotion; shame, anguish, and determination. It is a pity, Hannibal thinks, it is pity that he will never have a chance to see her dressed in silks with her hair loose and elegant. Always crumpled up.

 

 _Annoyance_ suffocates his admiration for the lovely little thing that fooled him. "We are told by Dumas that the addition of crow to bouillon, when the bird is fat and sleek with juniper berries, improves the color and the flavor of the stock. Do you enjoy it in _your_ soup, Clarice?"

 

The myriad of her eyes solidify and her prairie stare greets him as she offers a roll of butcher paper. "It tastes just bitter, Doctor." Hannibal wonders, he truly wonders, if she would hold that gaze as a knife slips past her lips to her tongue. "I brought your drawings, the ones of Florence and St. Sebastian, until you get your view. Might keep you company until then."

 

The St. Sebastians have Will Graham's old face on them; they both know this. Lecter's never seen the new one.

 

His eyes narrow, narrow; dangerous and gleaming. "Such a good girl, aren't you Clarice? Are you sliding in because Jack begged you to? Chilton will be so disappointed to see your face again. The man's indigestion is already so _very_ troubled."

 

There is suddenly something so very shy, so very private between them as Clarice Starling ducks her head. The motion of vibrant ponytail and bangs catches his attention with the play of light and he recalls he's never seen that. Her hair is usually in a stern braid, "No one sent me, I just came."

 

Lecter's grin is red and curving to match eyes, "People will say we're in _love_."

 

She looks up and _his_ breath stops with that hint of a smile; the tugging curves, the crinkle of her eyes, the purse of coral lips. She has a lovely painted smile, his Clarice does, but it's not nearly as lovely as the hiding smile of mirth by his absurdity, the impossibility of it all, the shameful rush if were true.

 

But he is Hannibal Lecter, she is Clarice Starling; they both know what happens when Lecter is alone and intimate; he scars.

 

"You're here for Billy Rubin, aren't you?” His tone was mild when he prompted her, almost kindly, “He's the only man in your life right now."

 

The near smile fades along with color from pale skin, "I would be if I didn't think it was _very_ convenient that Buffalo Bill is actually named _William_ , Doctor."

 

It is that half smile and the assurance she knew he _lied_ that makes Hannibal realize that he _cannot possibly_ kill his lovely Clarice when he escapes.

 

Oh, but he will scar her. 


End file.
